


The Things We Never Let Go

by jaybird_elliott2020



Series: Son of Robin [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Bruce Wayne, Alpha Jason Todd, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anxious Tim Drake, Depressed Tim Drake, Family Fluff, Good Father Jason Todd, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Omega Damian Wayne, Omega Tim Drake, Past Abuse, Photography, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repairing Relationships, Tim Drake is Damian's MOm, dad jason todd, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25592083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaybird_elliott2020/pseuds/jaybird_elliott2020
Summary: ::prompt:: Damien accidentally discover Tim's old photo collection and get Tim to pick photography back up.All the times Tim took photos of his family, and the one time his family found them.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: Son of Robin [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839805
Comments: 9
Kudos: 158





	1. The Photo Album

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1TitanGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1TitanGirl/gifts).



Tim was taking photos of the Gotham skyline. There was a lull in the night, usually it occurred between 4 and 5 AM. It was the time most of the Bats slept. Tim couldn’t sleep, too much adrenaline, too much anxiety, too much of his baby crying. He slipped out onto the roof, leaving the window of his apartment open and sitting on the ledge so he could be alert if his son needed him. Still, he needed a moment to himself.

He must have been out there for an hour, snapping shots of cars or early risers walking dogs or the soft glow that began to rise over the bay. He wasn’t sure how much more he’d have to photograph if he kept it up, so he took a break, resting his camera on his lap and leaning back on the roof.

“Aw, finished so soon?”

Tim jumped, whipping around. Jason Todd, smug as ever, stood over him with his arms folded and a dumb smile on his face.

“Thought you just took pictures of boys in tights?”

Tim scoffed and turned back. Jason moved behind him, clambered onto the ledge with more grace than he should have with all his armor.

“How’s the kid?”

Tim nodded. “He’s good. A monster who leeches off my paychecks with doctors’ visits and my body warmth when I finally manage to get some shut eye and all my nerves all days of the week, but … but good.”

Jason chuckled.

“I’m glad I kept him. Even if … even if he’s father’s a raging asshole who doesn’t deserve any right to my son. Did you know he’s trying to convince a court that he’s a fit parent and get custody? Of my son, _my_ son. He doesn’t even know what blood type he is. Fucker.”

“I’ll take him out for you, just say the word.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it sweetheart.”

Jason leaned back a little, though couldn’t recline as much as Tim with his large body. He looked over at the boy with the camera.

“When did you get back?” Tim asked.

“Couple hours ago.”

“How long you in town?”

“Couple hours. Need some intel.”

“Can you stay for breakfast?”

“Nah. Gotta get back to Roy before he and Dickiebird kill each other … or start fucking.”

“Can you stay for a quickie then?”

Jason quirked an eyebrow.

Tim was nineteen. He and Jason had started something of a casual relationship about six months ago, one that came when Jason first started coming back to Gotham for recon or intel or weapons or to check up on things. It wasn’t new anymore. It wasn’t surprising Tim wanted to get down and dirty and was so flippant about it.

“I won’t be able to stay after.”

“That’s fine. You don’t usally.”

“Yes I do. I try to.”

“I know, but you always leave before Damian gets up.”

“I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

“I know. You could at least let me make you breakfast sometime.”

“You should let _me_ make you breakfast sometime. I’m afraid of what you think breakfast is.”

“Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The works. I make a mean americano.”

“Don’t doubt it.”

“So? You gonna stay?”

Jason shook his head. “Sorry.”

“S’ok. You mind sitting here until you go? I’m not ready to go to bed yet.”

“Sure.”

They sat in silence and watched the sun creep slowly over the horizon.

At one point, Tim looked over to Jason, who had balanced himself precariously and comfortably on the ledge and closed his eyes.

Tim raised the camera and clicked.

The picture is of Jason.

~ ~ ~

Tim stretched out on the couch, letting himself stir slowly. Jason was in the kitchen. _He’s cooking_ , Tim told himself. He could smell bacon. He could hear something frying in a pan. Then he could hear Jason.

“Damian, nooo!” Jason whisper-yelled.

“But the pancakes, Jason,” Damian said back.

Tim still had his eyes closed. His body was facing the kitchen. He doesn’t want his boyfriend and son to know he’s awake yet. He was content just listening for now.

“That,” Jason laughed, “that’s not a pancake. Damian that was _all_ of the batter.”

“Mommy needs really big pancakes,” Damian replied, like Jason was an idiot for thinking otherwise.

Jason was still laughing. “Yeah, but now it won’t cook right. It’s too thick. The bottom will burn.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, hey, it’s all good, my man. We’ll just make more batter.”

Tim heard them shuffle around the kitchen. Jason put the pan with the big pancake in the sink and took out the griddle (which he later scolded himself for not using in the first place, because of course Damian would take the pan as a challenge).

There was stirring. Jason was guiding Damian gently. He said “good job” and “nice work” every time Damian did what he asked.

Tim cracked his eyes. Jason and Damian had their backs turned to him at the moment, but they were both looking over the counter, shoulders touching. Damian was standing on a chair and Jason was leaning against the counter a little, his head turned slightly to watch Damian work. He’s smiling.

Tim still doesn’t know if it was the way the morning light came in on them from the window behind Tim’s head, or the way Damian watched Jason with wide, awe-filled eyes when he took over the whisk, or the way Jason is actually, genuinely _smiling_. Tim got up slowly, careful not to disturb the scene. He snuck in his bedroom. His camera is under the bed in a shoebox with a few rolls of film. There’s an untouched roll he sticks in before returning to the kitchen.

The photo is of Jason and Damian.

It’s slightly off-center (Tim explains it is not off-center, it’s _purposefully_ off-center, and he was _not_ out of practice). Damian’s tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth while he pours the batter onto the griddle from a measuring cup. Jason is behind him, holding his hand steady and keeping the pour slow. He’s smiling this pretty smile, half curled on the right side (where Tim can see) and lips a little parted. It’s a smile Jason doesn’t think about.

~ ~ ~

After they moved into the new house, Tim and Jason fucked into the early morning. Neither of them thought of their sons, who are chronic early risers and often demand their attention. Especially Bash. He liked to be taken care of.

So, when Tim woke up at nine in the morning to a quite house, he was unnerved.

First, he checked the baby monitor on his nightstand. He couldn’t see Bash in his crib.

“Jason?” Tim said, groggily.

Jason replied with a grunt of displeasure, rolling over and pulling the sheets over his head.

“It’s nine,” Tim said, sitting up and standing. He stretched out, still aching a little in the hips and ass from a thorough lovemaking.

“S’sleepytime,” Jason mumbled into his pillow.

“I don’t hear the kids.”

Jason pulled the sheets back. He was listening for them. “Money they’re up to no good.”

Tim chuckled. He pulled on his pajama pants and opened their bedroom door.

“Gonna check on Bash?” Jason asked, slowly rising.

“Yeah. You got Damian?”

“Yup.”

With that Tim walked down the hall to his youngest son’s room.

Bash’s room was on the end of the hall, joined together with the neighboring room by a Jack and Jill bathroom (right now, it only serves as a guest room and occasional medical facility). Jason took care in decorating Bash’s bedroom. He took care with both the kids’ rooms. He put up wooden dinosaur pieces on the wall, against a green Tim thought looked almost puke-like but Jason was adamant complimented the bedspread Tim had picked out. Bash’s crib was less of a crib now and more of a crib-like bed. They had lowered the mattress so it rested closer to the floor and Bash could climb in and out. The outside barrier was replaced with a lower netted one that attached to the bottom of the crib and kept Bash from rolling off and onto the floor in his sleep. It has glow and the dark stars that Bash declared were a perfect complement to his forest green comforter that sported tiny, orange dinosaurs.

When Tim gets close enough to the messy bed, is easier to see it’s empty. He doesn’t worry too much though because Bash’s favorite stuffed alien, Greenman, is also missing.

It’s only a matter of where he’s gone.

Tim left the bedroom and caught Jason as he was coming down the stairs from Damian’s room. He had a big smile on his face.

“You gotta go get your camera,” Jason declared.

Tim raised an eyebrow but nodded.

The two men returned their bedroom and Tim had Jason take the Nikon off the top of the bookshelf where it rested just out of his reach (and conversely, out of both his sons’). Jason carried it back up the stairs. They stopped outside the door and Jason handed it over.

“Do your thing, my love,” he said, pushing the door open.

The photo is of Damian and Bash.

Damian’s arms are flat and wide on the bed. He’s laying on his back. Next to him, his brother is curled up in a tight ball in the dip of his armpit, cuddling Greenman close. Other than how they lay, they sleep identical. Their jet black hair is tussled and stuck to their foreheads with a gleam of sweat. Their lips part a little and their tongues sit between their teeth. They look a little angry. They tilt their heads towards one another. It’s Tim favorite photo.

~ ~ ~

Izzie’s birth wasn’t traumatic, Tim would protest. It simply made him decide he wasn’t going to have any more kids.

She was a little early. (Not as early as Damian had been, but still early.) She was breach. The umbilical cord was strangling her. They had to give Tim an emergency C-section. He hadn’t been able to see her right away. Jason was stuck halfway across the country in a snowstorm, trying desperately to find a way home.

Tim had cried a lot. It just … it reminded him too much of Damian’s birth. He was alone. His baby was taken.

Only this time, when he woke up, Damian and Bash were sleeping by his bedside. Bruce was standing by the door, watching all three of them and that was a bit of comfort too.

“Morning sleepyhead,” he said. It was a tone Bruce didn’t often have. Tim expected bad news.

“Is she ok?” he asked immediately.

“She’s fine,” Bruce said. He pointed to the foot of the bed. A clear bassinet on wheels was there. And so was his daughter.

Tim’s relaxed into the bed.

“How where the boys?”

“Would you believe they were perfect angels and didn’t get into Alfred’s secret stash of Belgian chocolates?”

“Not in a million years.”

“Yeah. I probably wouldn’t either.”

They both chuckled a little.

Next to Tim, Damian made a little grunt, signifying he was waking up. His eyes fluttered open to find his mother also awake and Bruce staring at him from across the room.

“Hi,” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey baby,” Tim said. He reached a hand out. Damian took it, sliding out of the chair and moving closer to the bed. “You were good for Grandpa?”

Damian nodded. Tim laughed a little.

With no more words, Damian climbed into his mother’s hospital bed, pressing himself comfortably against his shoulder but careful not to jostle Tim too much. Tim put his hand on Damian’s head, running his fingers through his son’s hair.

“It’s a girl?” Damian asked. His head was tilted down so Tim couldn’t see his face, but there were both looking at the bassinet.

“Yeah,” Tim said.

“What will we call her?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Tim looked up to Bruce.

“Have you heard from Jason?”

“He managed to rent a car, but the roads are closed. He’s hoping to be out of the airport by morning, though. The snow’s supposed to let up tonight.”

Tim nodded and looked back to Damian.

“What do you think we should call her?” he asked.

Damian lifted his head. His big green eyes were curious and oh so hopeful. He let his head drop again.

“How about Isabelle? Like from Wuthering Heights? It’s Dad’s favorite.”

Tim didn’t have the heart to tell his son that the name of the woman in Wuthering Heights is Isabell _a_ not Isabelle. But he also _loved_ the name Isabelle.

“Can we call her Izzie sometimes?”

“Only sometimes,” Damian declared. He chuckled to himself and Tim smiled.

The picture is of Damian and Izzie.

Damian is leaning over the bassinet, his finger pressed into his little sister’s hand. Izzie’s face is still a little red from crying, but in the picture, she’s calm.

~ ~ ~

There are times when Tim wished he didn’t take pictures. Of anything. He wished he could sit in a moment and enjoy it or hate it and not look for all the angle to make the most flattering prints for a new album.

After Izzie was born, he stopped himself from picking up his camera again. Even before that he only took pictures on the rarest of occasions (and mostly of his children). The itch to capture Damian playing with his siblings or Jason cooking dinner with Izzie on his hip was still there, Tim just didn’t scratch it.

The last picture he took was the one of Damian and Izzie in the hospital. He puts the camera in a box with his old albums and packs them away in the attic. He forgets about them. Truly.


	2. Movement

Damian is eighteen today. He is taller than ever. His voice is deep, but still a little squeaky when he gets upset, crackling and trying to drop. He is more patient. He is kinder. To himself. To his parents. To his brother and sister. Tim wonders where the time has gone.

“Hey Dami? Can you get the leaf from the attic?” Jason asks. He’s cooking a big dinner, all Damian’s favorites (no, no red velvet cake), and preparing for the entirety of their extended family to descend upon the house.

Damian nods. He walks up the steps and vanishes.

Tim and Jason are left alone.

It has been two years since Tim and Jason first began fighting. After Tim and Damian made amends, Tim and Jason had to figure themselves out. They started couples counseling. At first, Tim hated it. He thought they should be able to work things out alone, just the two of them, but Jason insisted it was the best course of action moving forward.

It took time, their relationship. It always had. Now, they slept together. Now, Tim only spent nights on the couch when his nightmares were the worst and he didn’t want to wake Jason, who finally managed to fight his demons himself and close his eyes. Now … now, he thinks, things are getting a little better. They still have a lot to work on.

“You look pretty,” Jason says.

His voice takes Tim by surprise.

“What?” he says, without thinking.

Jason sighs. “I said, you look pretty. With your coffee. In your pajamas.”

Tim blushes a little. “Oh.”

He knows this is Jason working on things. The biggest topic of therapy is their lack of communication. Dr. Thompkins tells them to say aloud when they have positive thoughts about one another.

Jason keeps stirring the pot on the stove.

“I like … I like when your soft like that,” Tim says after a moment’s pause. This is something else they are working on. Positive reinforcement of positive behaviors. “You were like that when I was pregnant with Bash.”

“Was I?”

“Yeah. You would hold me. Seek me out in a room. Lay on top of me, but not all the way, you know? You kept your head on my stomach, like you were listening for him. Waiting for him to say your name. I … I miss that. You being soft with me.”

Jason stops.

“Am I … not?”

“Sometimes, I think you are. But nothing like back then. Nothing like when I was pregnant.”

“Do you … do you think I was only like that _because_ you were pregnant.”

“Maybe?”

Jason sets the spoon on the counter. It drips sauce. Tim wants to tell him he’s making a mess, but the way Jason looks at him has him speechless.

“That’s not true,” he declares. He’s walking towards Tim slowly. He stops as close to Tim as he can. “I’m soft with you every morning.” He drops to his knees, resting his elbows on Tim’s thighs. He leans forward and presses his ear into Tim’s belly. His arms move and they’re wrapping around Tim’s waist, pulling him snug. “ _You_ make me want to be soft. I want to touch you, like this, all the time. I want you wrapped up in my arms. I want to love you, Tim. But sometimes you don’t let me.”

“Wha-when?”

Jason squeezes harder. “I tried yesterday. I kissed you awake. Tried to touch your scent glad, over the bondmark, but you rolled away. You said, ‘not now, Jason.’ And I got up and made breakfast, like I always do.”

“I was just tired.”

Tim’s lying. He trying to believe the lie, but he can’t do it any more than Jason can.

“I’ve tried other times. I’m trying now. You’re so tense though.”

“I’m afraid,” Tim admits.

“Of me?”

“Of losing you.”

The stairs creek and Tim turns his head. Damian is staring at them. Tim pets Jason’s hair, gently pushing him away. Jason doesn’t protest. He stands up again and goes back to the kitchen.

“You find the leaf?” Tim asks, picking his coffee mug up again.

Damian nods. He’s holding a box. It’s big and brown and a little spotty with mildew. On top is the leaf.

“Whatcha got there then?”

“Dunno,” Damian replies. He comes into the kitchen and sets everything on the table in front of his mother. “It just says 2002 to 2015.”

Tim quirks an eyebrow. He’s curious now too. He stands and pulls the top off. His heart nearly stops.

“Mom? You ok?” Damian says.

Tim’s heart is pounding in his throat. His eyes are watering.

“Tim? Honey?” Jason calls out, rushing over.

“I’m fine,” Tim says, batting away his husbands concerned hand. He’s still teary eyed, but he’s smiling so big both his husband and son can’t deny he’s telling the truth.

Jason looks in the box and lets a smile creep across his own face.

“Ah,” is all he says before going back into the kitchen and tending to his sauce.

“What is it?” Damian asks.

Tim wipes his eyes and pulls out his camera. It’s a little heavier than he remembered.

“It’s my old photography stuff,” Tim says, his voice is almost a whisper. He’s pulling albums. He’s pulling film canisters. He’s pulling negatives. He’s pulling prints that never made it to albums. “All of it.”

Damian sits at the table and lets Tim place things in front of him.

He starts with the blue and purple baby book. Blue and purple are the colors for omega boys when they are born, so Damian assumes the book it his, filled with more photos of him teething and messy with carrot purée. But when he opens it, he’s surprised to find Tim’s own smiling face.

He looks young, maybe nine or ten, and he’s holding up an award. It’s hard to make out what it’s for.

He flips the page and finds it a photo of Dick, he looks surprised. He’s holding ultrasound pictures. There’s a smile that’s starting to grow on his face.

He flips again. Bruce is in a room, holding a paint brush up to a wall. He’s dressed in overalls and a white t-shirt and he’s covered in paint. Dick is pointing and laughing in the corner, surrounded by a mess of crib pieces.

Again. Dr. Dean is standing, looking down at the lens. She’s got the ultrasound wand in hand. She looks surprised she’s being photographed.

Again. This one gives him a little pause. It’s dark, almost hard to make out. Tim is sleeping in a rocking chair. Damian is small and pressed tightly against Tim’s bare chest, bundled up in purple and blue blankets. The flash extends a little past them and it’s clear they are in a NICU unit.

Damian looks up to his mother, who is thumbing through the loose prints, sad smile on his face.

Again. Jason is in this one. He’s holding Damian in his lap, a bottle between Damian’s lips that’s gripped in his little fists. He looks like he’s about six-months old, but the messy scrawl below the picture marks him at ten-months.

Again. Damian is walking, reaching out towards the camera.

Again. Damian is crying, surrounded by wrapping paper.

Again. Damian is on a bike.

Again. Damian is on Dick’s shoulders, pointing off in the distance.

Again. Damian is between Bruce and Tim, they’re both hold his hands and swinging him in the air.

It’s easy to tell when someone else has taken the picture. The sunlight is a little too bright. The frame is focused too much on one person, usually favoring Tim. The people often look like they’ve been frozen in happiness. When Tim has taken the photo, the emotions are more raw, Damian trusts them more. He sees himself upset, and angry, and happy, and afraid, and everything all at once.

Again. The last photo.

It’s Jason. Only Jason.

He’s smiling this kind of smile that’s half-smirk, half-fondness. His left eye, the eye closer to the camera is cracked a little. He’s not looking at the lens, he’s looking at the person taking the photo. He’s looking at Tim.

When he looks at the date, Damian has to think about it, but he realizes he would have been two when it was taken. His parents weren’t together yet. Jason was supposedly out of the country. But there he is. Smiling.

After staring for what feels like an eternity, Damian feels his mother hanging over his shoulder.

When he looks up, Tim’s crying for real.

“Mom?” he whispers.

“I forgot I took that,” he says. He runs a shaky hand over his mouth. “God, I forgot I took that.”

“Are you ok?” Damian asks.

Jason comes over again. He rests a hand on Tim’s shoulder and looks down at the photo.

“Oh,” is all he manages to contribute.

They stay like that for a long time, looking into a past that they didn’t know existed. Looking into a happiness that was beginning to grow again.


End file.
